


Pull the Plug

by acedavestrider



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Bullying, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, these are fun tags huh....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acedavestrider/pseuds/acedavestrider
Summary: Your lips are loose on the last night of your life.





	Pull the Plug

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this to cope
> 
> also there's some heavy suicidal ideation in this so if thats triggering to you i dont recommend reading this

The harsh fluorescents of the convenience store press into your skin, uncomfortably oppressive and bright. You’re grateful for your sunglasses, the shades acting as a boundary between the lights and your eyes, between the ringing brightness and the migraine blooming behind your eyebrow. Your ears pop and crackle as you swallow for the third time in under a minute, and you grip onto the necks of the two bottles of vodka you’re trying to purchase with clammy hands. 

You’re in an absurdly long line for the only checkout station open in the store, the fifth person in the queue. You shift your weight from one foot to the another as you adjust yourself anxiously during the wait, the pill bottle in your hoodie pocket rattling loudly at your movements. Your heart lets out a dull thud at the sound, and nothing more. 

Pressure is building in your chest, in your head, threatening to burst. Your ears start to ring in the throbbing silence of the store and the consistent beeping of the register does little to break up the quiet. It echoes in your skull like a siren and you blink at it, willing it to stop, to be replaced with something else. 

The line moves, barely, and you take a shaky step forward. Your knees are moments away from giving out, the weight of your future actions too heavy to be sustainable. Your body simply can’t take it, and if you don’t get out of this line soon you’re going to lose it. 

There’s a hill a few miles outside of Houston, scenic and empty and quiet, that’s waiting for you outside of this convenience store, outside of this line, outside of your life. It was always a place of solace for you in your youth, and now, at twenty-five, it’ll be the last place you see. As long as everything goes to plan. 

Tonight is your last night alive. You’re going to take the bottles in your hands and the pills in your hoodie, and go to the hill, and end your life. It’s been months, years since you thought about it, and you’re finally ready. You’re more than ready. You wait for a throb in your chest at the thoughts running through your head, but it doesn’t come. Your heart is too used to these thoughts to bother thumping painfully, to bother making a last ditch effort to convince you out of your plan. Instead it rests easy in your chest as you picture your hill, waiting for you, and the sunset, and the stars, and the empty blackness of death. 

Suddenly you’re at the front of the line and the cashier is asking you for your ID so she can scan the bottles. You snap out of your stupor and rifle around in your wallet for your driver’s license. She scans your items and puts them in a bag for you despite not needing to, then bids you a good night and calls to the next customer. 

It takes you too long to gather your bag and your wallet and your ID, and the pill bottle is threatening to spill out of your pocket, and soon the person behind you in line is standing next to you. You scoot over, trying to get your shit together so you can get out of the way. Between your bumbling movements and building anxiety, you glance up at the person and take note of his smooth skin, his dark hair, the hard line of his jaw. It’s your last day on earth, and you figure you might as well take a moment to appreciate the aesthetic of the man next to you. You do, for just a moment, before taking your items and heading for the door. 

You’re halfway to the exit when you hear a commotion behind you. There’s a lot of cussing, followed by apologies from the young cashier. The man’s card has been declined and he’s insisting that the cashier try again. 

“I just put money on that card today, there should be enough,” he’s nearly yelling. 

You stop in front of the exit, your body a fire hazard, and gaze at the situation with mild, lazy interest. You thumb at your wallet in your pocket and approach the man. 

“Hey, I’ve got it,” you offer. “If you want.” 

“God, Jesus, no you don’t have to fucking do that,” he protests. “I just…” 

You look down at the grocery bags sitting on the counter. It looks like a bunch of prepackaged, over-processed food and a six pack of cheap beer. The guy’s just trying to eat. 

You’re going to die later; there’s no reason to be hoarding any of the money left in your checking account. You’re not even sure how much you have on your card, but you hand it over to the cashier anyways and pay for the random stranger’s purchase. The cashier seems grateful while the man seems embarrassed, but you walk away before either of them can say much to you. 

It’s only when you’re unlocking your car and putting your bag in the passenger’s seat that you hear someone approach you. 

“Hey!” the guy from the store is shouting. “Hey, hold on a second.” 

You turn to face him and are startled at how handsome he is up close and straight on, a huge contrast to the blown out, oversaturated environment of the convenience store. You stare at him as he stops in front of you, and wait for him to say something. 

When he doesn’t, you prod him with a, “Yeah?” 

“I… didn’t get to say thanks for paying for my shit,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

You shrug a shoulder, press your lips together. “No problem,” you say. “Not like I’m gonna use that money or anything.” 

He furrows his brows. “What, are you filthy fucking rich or something?” he asks. “Was this some kind of charity case that you’re just going to use to jack yourself off later over how generous you are? I don’t wanna be the middle class fist that closes over the self-aggrandizing erection you’re probably getting over doing one nice thing for a poor fuck like me.” 

“Nah,” you say, unaffected by his choice of language. He reminds you of someone. “I just figured you could use the help is all. And I’m really not gonna use the money. Trust me.” You consider telling him about your plan, just to see how he’d react, but he’d probably try to stop you. You’re not in the mood. You keep your mouth shut. 

The man narrows his eyes but seems satisfied by your response either way. “Well, fuck, at least let me share a beer with you or something then,” he suggests. “I mean you fucking paid for it, you might as well reap the benefits of this third rate shit. I’ve got peanuts to go with it and everything, really fucking splurged tonight. I hope you know your money went to a good cause.” 

“I’m good,” you say, taking half a step back. You’re anxious to get to your hill. 

“No, seriously,” he insists. “I already feel like the world’s biggest loser, complete with a trophy in the shape of a frowny face and a sash made from recycled garbage, and if I can’t pay you back somehow I’m gonna lose my shit.” 

“I don’t know...” 

“Just one beer?” he asks.

You look down at his hands clenching around his bags, then back up at his pretty face. Your gaze stays situated on him for long enough that you think you make him uncomfortable, but eventually you agree to his suggestion. You like beer, even the shitty kind, and it will probably only delay your death but half an hour or so. You could be doing worse things than drinking alcohol with an attractive guy, and you figure you might as well be spontaneous and do something nice for yourself before you die.  

You lean on the hood of your car and the guy joins you, using a bottle opener on his keychain to open the beers. He hands one to you and the cool glass nearly slips out of your sweaty hands. You grip the bottle tighter and take a long drink, downing half of it. The drunker you can get the better. Maybe you’ll get so drunk that you’ll crash your car on the way to your hill and die that way instead. You think you’d welcome it. 

“You’re Dave, aren’t you?” the guy asks after a moment of silence. “Strider?” 

You glance at him. “Shit, dude,” you huff with a fake laugh. “Are you stalking me or something? If you’re gonna kill me and use my skin as a blanket just do it already.” 

“We went to high school together,” he says as explanation. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He pauses. And then, “You were a huge fucking asshole.” 

“Fuck,” you mumble, this time with a more genuine laugh. “You’re right.” 

He grins a little at your admission. “As far as assholes go you definitely win the award for biggest, most gaping one of them all,” he further compliments. “You were a massive dickhead to everyone all the time, if I remember correctly, and I’m shocked you didn’t get your ass kicked because of it.” 

You brow twitches in a wince. You  _ were _ getting your ass kicked in high school, just not by your peers. Your brother had been beating the shit out of you for years at that point, and had convinced you that you deserved it to the point where you were barely fighting back. You still have scars from where he’d cut you, and you still get spasms in your back from a muscle he fucked up one time. Your left shoulder hasn’t felt right in years and you think you have permanent brain damage from an undiagnosed and untreated concussion. 

“Look,” you start. “Shit at home for me was real fuckin’ bad during high school, alright? I was just acting out because I was an idiot teenager and didn’t know any better. I swear I’ve mellowed out since then, now I basically live like a middle-aged father in a dead-end job who lost custody of his kids in the divorce. All I do is sit around and wait until I can see my kids on the third weekend of every month, and in between I’m watching soap operas and drinking beer with random strangers.” 

“Do you even know who I am?” he asks, irritation drifting into his voice. 

“No,” you say honestly. 

He rolls his eyes. “Karkat,” he says. “Karkat Vantas?” 

You can feel your brows shoot up in surprise and then recognition as the memory of Karkat’s high school aged face pops into your head. You remember him as a short, kind of chubby kid with messy hair and a ton of acne. The man sitting next to you is nothing of the sort and is instead tall and built like a brick shit house, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. His skin is clear and looks smooth to the touch and his hair is nicely styled, hanging gently in his face. He’s undeniably attractive and you’re attracted to him.

“Oh, fuck,” you say. You hesitate with your next words, until you remember you’re going to die soon and realize you don’t care about what comes out of your mouth anymore . “Puberty hit you real fucking good, didn’t it?” you say. “They’re gonna start using you as an example in those shitty puberty videos they showed us in sex ed, like hey kids I know your dick keeps getting hard at weird times and you can’t stop thinking about boobs but look how fucking hot you’re gonna get. And all the kids are gonna be like oh fuck sign me up for this puberty shit, I’m in.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, turning away from you. “Are you sure you’ve changed at all since high school? Because I’m still hearing the same unparalleled amount of bullshit spewing out of your mouth. I think there’s even more now than there was back then.” 

Air huffs out of your nose in a half-laugh. “Yeah my bullshit levels are still pretty much off the charts,” you say. “Except now instead of saying slurs and being an all-around kinda huge piece of shit I’m just talking out of my ass most of the time. Give me some credit.” 

Karkat shakes his head, like he’s trying to believe you but can’t quite convince himself. “Yeah, I’m sure the asinine filth that you spit out is much more politically correct now,” he says. “Do you censor yourself when you call people faggots now, too? Or has that stayed the same?” 

You blink, memories of high school flooding back into your system along with the shitty beer. You weren’t the nicest dude on the block, to say the least. If you remember correctly, you specifically targeted the few gay kids in your school and threw slurs at them as much as possible. In retrospect, you know your behavior was just a farce to cover up your own homoerotic feelings for one of your friends, and you were just acting out as a way to overcompensate. It’s probably the most cliche thing you’ve ever done, like you were the bully character in a poorly made young adult movie, and you’re genuinely embarrassed about it now. You made a few kids’ lives a living hell and you can’t imagine what kind of effect it had on them. You feel like shit. 

You take a swig of your beer. It’s getting warm. “Things are different now,” you say, a firm tone sneaking into your voice. You’re trying to convince yourself as much as you’re trying to convince Karkat. “I’m not like that anymore.” You take another look at Karkat and have the urge to tell him about your bisexuality. So you do. 

He raises his eyebrows at your admission. “Oh, I get it,” he muses. “So you were just calling people faggots to cover up your own gay tendencies, like the most stale, overused trope imaginable. Who was it? A friend? A teacher? A guy on TV? Who got you so riled up that you had to start calling people slurs so you didn’t have to think about the fact that you were beating off at night to the image of another dude?”

“It was my best friend,” you say honestly. There’s no point in not admitting it; it took you years to admit it to yourself and you have no problem saying it to a near stranger. Your lips are loose on the last night of your life. 

“Fuck, you’re shitting me,” Karkat exclaims. “That Egbert kid? With the goofy teeth?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh,” he laughs. “Oh god. Thank you for telling me the best fucking thing I’ve heard in a while.” He leans back on his hands in satisfaction. “I can’t believe you fucking fell for the straightest straight boy in our entire school and then had to overcompensate for it by being an ingratiating, homophobic piece of shit for your whole high school career. Hearing that almost makes the bullying worth it, just to know how fucked up you were.” 

For some reason, you feel yourself starting to smile. “Yeah, I was a piece of shit,” you say. “All fucked up inside because I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing my best bro. Felt like I was in some kind of cheap YA novel where the protagonist has an entire gay crisis and the whole book is about him finding himself or whatever the fuck. Except I didn’t get the guy or the cheesy ending.” 

“Yeah? What  _ did  _ you get?” 

You consider this, then shrug. “Alcoholism?” you guess, raising your beer up higher. 

A satisfactory answer, Karkat clinks his beer bottle against yours and then downs the rest. “Yeah, I saw you with those two bottles of vodka in line,” he mentions. “You having a pity party tonight with those? You better not drive or I swear to god--” 

“I won’t,” you say, but you’re still not sure. The option of vehicular suicide is growing on you, though you think you’ll miss the view from your hill. You haven’t decided yet. 

Speaking of. 

“I gotta get going,” you say, standing up fully. You haven’t finished your beer yet but you’re anxious to get going; the longer you sit here the longer you’re extending your life, the longer you’re giving people the chance to reach out and question why they haven’t heard from you in weeks. The last thing you want is an anxious call from John, or Rose, asking where you are and if you’re okay. It’s better if they don’t talk to you, if they get used to having you gone sooner rather than later. 

Your sudden dismissal seems to startle Karkat, and he stands up quickly to join you where you’re throwing away your beer in a nearby trash can. 

“Hey, wait,” he’s saying, following you back to your car. “I could use a ride home.” 

“Take the bus,” you suggest. 

“Can’t,” he says. “Doesn’t run this late.” 

You check your watch. It’s past eleven o’clock. Your hill is waiting for you. “I’ll call you an Uber.” 

“I live really close by,” he insists. “Not fucking worth paying for an Uber if you ask me. You already paid for my damn groceries.” 

“Why don’t you just walk if it’s so close then?” You want to leave. Alone. 

“Because I’m not in the mood to be kidnapped and raped I guess?” he says, staring you down. 

You have no idea why he’s being so fucking insistent, or why he’s okay with riding in a car with a guy he barely knows. You catch his gaze and hold it long enough that anyone else would start to falter, but he holds firm. You ask for his address, and when you discover that it’s on the way to your hill you say yes. It’ll only take a few minutes, you tell yourself. 

“You’re good to drive?” he asks, getting into the car with you. 

“I had like half a fucking beer, dude,” you say. “You think I’m that much of a lightweight?” 

“I’ve seen twinks like you get fucked up on less,” he states. 

“Not everyone can be fucking stacked like you are,” you retort. “What’s your position on the team, huh? Linebacker? Tight end?” 

“Cheerleader,” he answers flatly. It makes your mouth twitch. You’re almost smiling. 

You clamp down on the feeling and the smile slides off your face. You’re going to lose your nerve if you let yourself smile, feel things, laugh. You have a goal and you’re going to reach it; Karkat is just a roadblock. 

When you pull up to Karkat’s apartment he hesitates in the car, fingers white-knuckled on the door handle. He turns to you and swallows a few times before speaking. 

“Do you want to come inside?” he asks. “I’ve got coffee.” 

Coffee. You look at him with a raised eyebrow and start getting a vibe like maybe he’s propositioning you for something. The dismissive and flippant mood you’ve been in all night rears its ugly head again and you say yes, stepping out of the car. Sex on your last night alive might be nice, if you can get it. And by the expression on Karkat’s face you think you just might. 

The apartment is as small and shitty as you expect it to be, a studio with a small kitchen and even smaller living space. Karkat makes a beeline for the kitchen to put away the few groceries you bought for him and gets to work on making coffee. The pills in your hoodie pocket clatter as you move to sit on his couch and it jolts you into nearly leaving. But then Karkat approaches you with a grin and a piping hot mug of coffee and you lean back into the cushions in satisfaction at the taste. Hot guy, hot coffee… you figure you may as well treat yourself on your last night. 

“If you had told me ten years ago that Dave Strider would be sitting on my couch and drinking my coffee I would have laughed in your fucking face and called you a series of insulting, degrading names,” Karkat announces. “But here you are.” 

“Here I am,” you confirm with a nod. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, either. Figured you’d’ve left this place a long fucking time ago.” 

“I tried,” he admits. “But as you already know I’m not exactly rolling in cash. This place is cheap as hell so I’m still here. For the time being.” 

“I get it,” you say. “I make most of my money drawing porn for weirdos on the internet.” 

Karkat chokes around his sip of coffee. “You do  _ what _ ?” 

“Draw porn,” you state again. “You know like fanart and shit for people who are really into anime and whatever the fuck. They’ll pay loads just to get a pic of their favorite characters getting dicked down. It’s a pretty lucrative business if you look in the right place.”

“I can’t fucking believe you’re fucking… drawing porn for strangers on the internet,” he mutters. Then he laughs. “Sounds like what you deserve for being such a shithead all throughout high school. Maybe this is your karma.” 

“Yeah?” you ask. “If this is the worst karma can do then I think I’ll fucking take it. This is nothing.” 

“Oh, there’s more coming,” Karkat insists. “I’m sure.” 

“Well fuck dude, what do I gotta do to get this karma shit off my back?” you ask, half sarcastic. “I don’t wanna be drawing porn forever.” You won’t be.

“Well, you’ve already paid for my groceries today and driven me home,” he muses. “I guess the next step would probably be to apologize for essentially bullying me and my friends in high school. But that’s up to you.” 

He’s right; you haven’t said sorry once the whole night. You should make amends before you die. Maybe it’ll let you get into heaven, if there is one. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “The shit I pulled in high school was all kinds of fucked up and I genuinely feel like at least kinda bad about it, you know? I could give you a long-winded sob story as explanation for why I was such a grody piece of shit but it’s really not worth your time, to be honest. Long story short is I had a fucked up older brother who did fucked up shit and being an asshole was the only way I knew how to make myself feel better.” 

Karkat blinks, considers you. “Your brother… I saw you with bruises sometimes, on your arms.” He pauses and looks away from you. “Was that him?” 

“Yeah.” You hate how scratchy your voice sounds, the memory of your brother trying to choke you. Despite being long gone, he still has the ability to incapacitate you like it’s nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” Karkat says, though you don’t understand why. “I didn’t know.” 

“No one did.” 

“Not even your friends?” He sounds like he desperately wants something positive to come out of your mouth. 

“Not even my friends,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Well no fucking wonder you acted like such a festering bag of garbage; I would have lost my fucking mind dealing with that on my own.” 

You shrug. “You get used to it.” 

This makes Karkat frown. He shakes his head and fiddles with the TV remote. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore,” he says definitively. 

“Yeah, alright.” You’re grateful for the change in topic. You don’t like talking about your brother if you can help it. 

Karkat puts some cooking show on the television and sips his coffee next to you, body just close enough to be noticeable. You wonder if the feeling you got from him earlier, the possible invitation into his pants, is still on the table. If it’s not, you kind of want to leave already so you can get to your hill before too late into the night, you’re starting to get antsy. You’re not sure how to ask him for clarification. 

“So,” you start, unsure of what your next words will be. Karkat has been ranting about one of the contestants on the show and their inappropriate use of a blender. Your thought interrupts him and he looks at you sharply. 

“I’m gonna go ahead and stop you right there before you make an even bigger ass of yourself,” he says with a hand up. “If you’re wondering if I called you up here to sleep with you the answer is yes, so don’t bother trying to formulate a coherent question about it. You’ll hurt yourself.” 

“Really?” you say, eyebrow raised at his bold statement. “Fuck, dude, I’m flattered.” 

“God, will you shut  _ up _ ,” is all he says before pressing forward and kissing you. 

As attracted to him as you are, and as little inhibitions as you have on your last day alive, you kiss him back immediately, almost too fast. He doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest, instead pulling you closer by the front of your hoodie. A warm hand snakes under your shirt and nails sweep up your hips, leaving goosebumps in their path. You put a hand in Karkat’s hair and pull a little just to gauge his reaction. A rumbling groan vibrates against your mouth in response, a good sign. You feel yourself smile. 

The anxiety you felt sitting next to Karkat, on his couch, in the car, in the parking lot of the convenience store, starts to ebb away. It flows out of you like water, seeping out of your pores, pulled out of you through Karkat’s lips. You feel your shoulders slouch with relief and your heart rate speed up with newfound vigor and excitement. Colors bloom behind your eyelids, a kaleidoscope of light, and you start to feel… something, a stark contrast from the complete lack of emotion you’ve been dealing with for the past few months. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s warm, and pleasant, new but familiar. 

Karkat pulls away from you and you open your eyes, startled at the sudden lack of contact. His apartment looks brighter than you remember it, the colors more vibrant, though the view is momentarily obscured as Karkat wrestles your hoodie off and throws it on the floor. 

There’s a clatter of plastic as the forgotten pills you’d been keeping in your pocket fall to the floor. You both stop to consider the bottle of prescription sleeping pills now threatening to roll under Karkat’s coffee table. They’re not even yours; you stole them from John. 

You hear Karkat take a shaky breath, though whether it’s from kissing you or the sight of the pills you’re not sure. 

“I saw them in your pocket earlier,” he admits in a small voice. “That’s why I invited you inside.” 

“What?” you ask, heart pounding. 

“I’ve seen this before,” he explains. “With a friend of mine. I know what you’re planning and I… you shouldn’t… I had to try and--”

He doesn’t finish his thought, startled into silence by you standing up suddenly. You snatch your hoodie from the floor and crouch down to retrieve the pills, ears ringing loudly in your head. Your heart is beating out of control and the headache you felt earlier is coming back in full force. Swallowing takes more effort than it should and you ignore Karkat’s voice as you put your hoodie back on and head for the door. 

“Dave, wait,” he almost shouts. “Wait, fuck, don’t--”

The slam of the door cuts him off. You nearly sprint back down to your car and don’t even bother with your seatbelt as you speed to the edge of the city, to your hill, to your death. Once there you sit on the grass at the crest of the hill and look out over the city with flitting, wild eyes. You haven’t calmed down since Karkat’s apartment and feel even worse now that you’re at your final resting place, your palms sweaty and your stomach curling uncomfortably. 

You realize suddenly that you’re crying, aching. You yearn for the feeling of Karkat against you again, the feeling of  _ something _ that you felt while kissing him. You shake your head and grit your teeth, pulling out the pills and shaking a handful into your palm. You stare at them. 

And you stare at them. 

And you stare at them. 

And you stand up. Something doesn’t feel right. You’re still crying. 

You get back into your car and then just sit there, for a long time. When the sun looks like it’s about to rise you put your keys into the ignition, hands shaking, and start your car, and drive away. 

And you live. 

**Author's Note:**

> ive been so close to suicide in my life that i just had to write something about it you know? 
> 
> sometimes one little thing is enough to save you and thats pretty much the point of this i guess...? like one thing can trigger a feeling in you and thats enough to stop you from going through with it.... idk what im trying to say
> 
> anyways hope you liked reading this at least, thanks for clicking on it. leave a comment if you want.


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